More writing by Bruce Taylor

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Cars

by Bruce Taylor

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YOU'RE SITTING BY the road beneath that pale dawn sky and she drives by you in her junker '62 Fairlane 500 and slows way down and says, "Wanna ride?"

You look at her. Yeah. Nice lady she seems to be, what with the red hair, the freckles, the granny glasses and – um – are those empty beer bottles in the back? Well, we can't all be perfect and you say, "Yeah, that's what it's all about isn't it? Helping each other out on this strange journey."

"You bet," she says.

"Thanks," you say and you climb in and she punches the accelerator like she's trying to get to the nearest galaxy by out-warping the Enterprise. You're pressed back into the seat by the mounting g's and she says, "This old heap does pretty well for a '62."

"Ak," you say.

"What's your name?" she yells to be heard; you must be reaching mach three, and outside, things blur.

"Ak," you say.

"Ak, it is," she laughs. "Oxygen is below the dash. We're about to go through a thermal layer."

You didn't have this in mind.

"Some asshole men I pick up are just like my fucked up old man," she says. "They beat me and if you lay a finger on me, I'll punch you right in the nuts."

"Ak," you say.

"Abuse!" she screams. You don't know who hits the ejection button first; you think it's you. Your section of the Ford blasts upward and you get a stunning view of Saturn before you flip topsy turvy, still anchored in the passenger's side and somehow you can hear her voice give one long, slurring accusation, "I know what you were thinking fucker eat shit and die."

"Ak," you say but you think that this was a good thing and for some reason you cannot comprehend, maybe the atmosphere is thicker here, the seat slows and slows and why it doesn't disintegrate and burn up is beyond you. Maybe your head is too impervious these days; maybe your skin has turned to titanium alloy that can withstand the extreme temperatures you have withstood from the intense friction with other people way back in the past. Maybe you were born on the sun with sun beings whose primary purpose was to take energy and give nothing back. Maybe you're used to all this; you don't know. But gently your seat settles sedately down by the interstate once again and you breath out a sigh of relief. "Ak," you say, "My God, I'm still alive. Still alive."

You unbuckle yourself from the seat and look about the reddish desert, the immense wastes of sand and in the distance a dust devil dances and the sky is that pale blue and the moon is like a crescent Cheshire smile. You haven't the first idea where you are and as you ponder this, someone else pulls up in a '58 Edsel, the color of earth and she, the driver, says, "Hi, stranger, going my way?"

"Sure," you respond, and this looks better this time around; nothing in the back seat and it's it clean inside, but boy it's dark, like you're sitting in the dark of Jupiter, of Pluto's night side and in the shadow cold of the interior, you can vaguely make out her face, the curly dark hair, the dark eyes, the earth-colored clothes.

"Climb in," she says.

"I thank you," you say, "getting a ride is sometimes a difficult task way out here. It's nice to have company along the way."

She nods. "My mother hated me."

"Gee," you say, "that's too – "

She does something to the gear shift; she pushes it down; the car vibrates and you accelerate. Down.

"She beat me all the time," she says and she begins to cry. Down you go, down, down, down, there goes the daylight, and you can't imagine how many layers of history you are sinking through, "1988, she beat me so hard that I landed in the hospital. 1986, she forced me out the window of a second story apartment – I broke my teeth and my leg."

"I'm sorry," you respond, and of course, in the car, it is utterly and totally black as Cretaceous mud underneath the feet of a Brontosaurus. Oh, man, it's black.

"You fucker," she seethes, "how can you know? You had it so good – "

"No, I didn't," you respond. Jeeze, you can't see her face but her energy field surges, withdraws and punches you again and again, like an airy fist.

"Oh, my mother was such a bitch," she says, "and my father he was never there. You're just like the rest, aren't you? You're just going to leave – "

"What?" you say. "What? I don't even know you, we're not even friends, but I have to admit, it's difficult to be close to you right now – "

"You're going to abandon me, you're going to leave me – "

You sigh. "Well, I'm beginning to think, for my sanity, that may not be a bad idea – "

Suddenly, light. You're blinded. You blink, look around, oh, my God, you wonder, broad canals, a crystal city in the distance and it's a 1950's Mars and whamph, the car lands on the paved side of a broad canal.

"Get out," she says, "you're just making me depressed."

It's strange, even in the light, her face is dark, dark as the backside of the moon, dark as the silk chamber of a spider, black as the tar in a tar pit and you get out and watch her drive away and suddenly her car explodes way down there on the horizon where sky and land and canal seem to merge at some vanishing point and you watch the smoke curl like a question mark, only to turn into an exclamation point and you sit on the side of the canal.

"Oh, shit," you mumble to yourself, "this does not look like Detroit, or Tacoma or any other place I know." And you sigh again. "And it doesn't look like the local traffic may necessarily go that way. Oh, isn't this strange indeed."

You stare out at the landscape, to the lichen fields beyond, to the fear moon, Phobos, stumbling, falling through the sky and think, a lesson. There must be a lesson here. Wonder what the hell it is. You close your eyes. Deeper. You go deeper. You sigh, focus, and on the side of the canal, with the wind singing through the spires of Syrtis Major, shining, white and pale green and blue in the sun, you go deeper, deeper, much, much deeper, focusing on the inner world and wham! you see the hatred of your ancestors, see the rage and the bitterness of the women, of all the mothers in your past and coming back up, up to the present and you simply say, "Of course." You look into the canal. It's deep enough and combined with your depth of hopelessness, you could drown.

"Yes, I could," you say, "maybe I should," but you shake your head. "Who am I to sign, seal and deliver my fate while I still have breath?"

Abruptly, you turn around and there she is – a Martian. You shake your head. A Martian but she looks okay. The amber eyes are a little odd; the four fingers to a hand – um – well – and are those nubbins on her forehead – ah – antennae? Pale orange skin – too many carrots perhaps? She sits there in her Mars machine or car or whatever you want to call it and she does something absolutely marvelous. She smiles. "Il yakatat," she says.

You shake your head.

She opens up the side of the machine in which she sits. She gestures. "Dweur ga." You shake your head again. The city of Syrtis Major gleams and shines like a promise and the wind ripples the surface of the canal. Something weird breaks the surface, flies for a minute, then dives down and you turn to her. You turn to her amber eyes, to her smile, and you climb into the car; she touches you with her strange hand and says with the softest voice you've ever heard, "Gwee pas pa, gwee pas, pas pa. Gwnell. Sha sa."

And you want to cry, wanting so much to trust that which seems so strange.

 

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